


hitting your cut

by SETFORSTUN



Category: Pentagon (Korea Band)
Genre: M/M, Questionable sartorial choices, minor league baseball au, ptg ensemble!!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-07
Updated: 2018-06-07
Packaged: 2019-05-15 17:50:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,354
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14795121
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SETFORSTUN/pseuds/SETFORSTUN
Summary: Shinwon has an average arm, average stats, and one hell of a chip on his shoulder.





	hitting your cut

**Author's Note:**

> hiiiii i've appeared to post my ugly opinions and go! i love ptg a lot & i really wanted this to be shinwon/hongseok...but god, the universe, and ko shinwon himself intervened lmao...
> 
> anyways this fic is absolutely for sarah, since i doubt anyone else values our specific understanding of shinwon's emotional constipation and hongseok's pathetic life as much as we do....love you <3 
> 
> since this is a minor league baseball au, based on a real team and farm system, I thought I'd provide some background:
> 
> The real Vermont Lake Monsters are a short-season single A team in the New York-Penn League, which acts as the very first step for semi-decent draft prospects. However, a player's time on a short-season single A team rarely extends beyond one season—so I've taken the liberty of treating the Lake Monsters like a regular Single A team, where players will occasionally spend multiple seasons playing for, and which also draws fresh draftees (though perhaps ones of more potential merit than would go to short-season initially).
> 
> The Lake Monsters' prospects have been drafted by the Oakland Athletics major league baseball team. The goal for these prospects is to rise through the various levels of Oakland's minor league 'farm' system (A, AA, AAA), and emerge as rookie players in the major leagues.
> 
> Also, minor league baseball in general thrives off of bad taste and questionable decision-making. So 8)

Hwitaek loves to throw that high cheese, and Hyojong is too infatuated with him to make firmer calls behind the plate. Shinwon knows this, has watched it develop for over a season now, but it still surprises him when the Spinners' cleanup drives one deep enough into center field that he has to chase it to the warning track off one bounce. 

His team's been playing tight tonight, even though the smoke from the right field barbeque has been testing Shinwon's concentration for the past hour. The high schoolers inside the manual scoreboard haven't been very busy, 1-0 to the top of the 9th, and Shinwon can hear them behind his center field post, bickering about who's going to leave the stuffy plywood box first. It's nearing dusk, but the Lowell Spinners have been working hard to catch their lead, driving Hyojong mad behind the plate as they dance off the bases. There's runners on first and second, both teasing the steal like they've got nothing to lose. Just one out, though, so it's probably a bluff. 

But this line drive has some pop behind it, enough to overshoot Hongseok at second base; and the commentator, starved for action, hollers into the mic about Shinwon being 'on his horse' as he sprints to intercept it. Two baserunners, base hit. If Shinwon's not careful, he could lose them the lead.

 

In single A ball, baserunning can get a little messy—the fast ones get cocky, and assume the fielders can't keep up. Jinho complained about it to Shinwon once, after they'd lost a close one over a botched steal, one more to their away-game losing streak last year. _These kids,_ he'd grumbled, sprawled across the bed in their shared motel room. _They all think it's still a baserunning game, like high school. They know stealing is much riskier in the Show, but they keep running like that and expect the infield doesn't get better as they advance. I'm getting too old to have a shit record over little-league plays._

Shinwon didn't get what he meant then, since he was fresh out of high school ball himself; but it's his second single A season now, and suddenly it all makes sense. One of the new kids this season, Hyunggu, is a hotshot from some small town in upstate New York— and the way he ran the bases at the start of the season made Shinwon think he'd never played a defense that could hold a candle to him. Cocky is good. Cocky is what you need to be to make it. But it can be dangerous, to suddenly find yourself a little fish in a much bigger pond.

The runner on first is like that, and Shinwon had been able to tell as soon as he'd stepped into the batter's box. He had this wild grin on his face, goading Hwitaek and Hyojong with light feet once he'd made it to first on a walk. Wooseok rolled his eyes the fourth time Hwitaek took the bait and threw over to him for the tag-out, and Shinwon had snickered at the runner's laugh. The guy was a ham—and he'd gotten under Hwitaek's skin. Two admirable traits. But now that he's chasing after what's easily a double, Shinwon's not laughing anymore.

 

The most common practice drill for outfielders is to have a batter hit long line drives into various parts of the outfield for them to field. Although Shinwon is currently struggling with it, retrieving the ball is usually the easier step; the hard part is hurling it back in with both speed and accuracy to whichever base still has a play to be made.

Because this target is notoriously difficult to hit, especially under pressure, most plays at home plate involve a cutoff man, or an infielder intermediary who completes a more accurate throw to home. In this case, Hongseok would be his cut, at second. After running down the ball, Shinwon turns to make the throw and sees Hongseok facing him, glove ready.

He also sees that first base runner rounding third, and wants to wipe that insolent smile off of his face.

 

Shinwon has an arm; they wouldn't have scouted him if he didn't. Even with his power, though, he can only hit Hyojong's mitt from this distance about 50% of the time. He hucks it anyways, watches Hongseok realize that it's going to go over his head, an annoyed twist to his lips. Can't unring that bell, honey.

Hongseok was fresh meat this season like Hyunggu, but he'd never once acted like it—which is to say, with any deference for seniority. When the scouts send California boys over they all think they're hot shit, and the minute Hongseok showed up on the team house's front porch with his hip cocked, distressed skinny jeans and amber-lens sunglasses, Shinwon had guessed he was one of them. And then he'd snapped his chewing gum with a crooked jaw, and Shinwon had been sure of it.

 

 _Shinwon, you insolent little shit!_ Jinho is yelling at him, voice small from all the way in the left field bullpen. _Would it kill you to just hit your fucking cut?! We're gonna lose the fucking lead!_

Shinwon's a fucking idiot. His throw bounces halfway down the pitcher's mound, sending an off-kilter hop over Hyojong's head as he waits, hunched, to make the tag at home plate. While Hyojong sprints to retrieve the ball, the first base runner crosses the plate unimpeded with a grin and a blown kiss. Hwitaek looks murderous, wheeling around and glaring into center field.

 _Fuck,_ Shinwon's really going to get it in the clubhouse tonight. Even Changgu is calling him a shithead from over at third, glove propped on his hip in annoyance. Hongseok has turned his back on Shinwon already, instead keeping an eye on Hyunggu's nervous shifting at shortstop. Plays like this really rattle him, get inside his head. Shinwon's gut twists unpleasantly at the slumping postures of the Lake Monsters defense. But mainly at the new error added to his stats.  

 

The next batter steps into the box, and Shinwon adjusts his cap, bends his knees, and prepares for the play.

 

~

 

Shinwon was a local kid, and in high school he'd help drag the infield and mow the outfield at the ballpark for leftover hotdogs and funnel cakes. Instead of heading to the lockers after the game, Shinwon lingers in the dugout, spitting sunflower seeds into the disgusting rusty bucket at the end of the bench for when Hwitaek gets stressed out enough to take out his tin of chew.

They couldn't take the lead back, of course. After Hongseok had grounded out to end the game, Shinwon could feel every eye on him in the dugout. It's getting relatively late in the season, _and_ he's the idiot who broke the Lake Monsters' winning streak. He doesn't want to face the music just yet. If he hangs around for a bit, everyone else will give up on reaming him out and leave, and then Shinwon can retrieve the tepid, unopened can of PBR in his locker to drink undisturbed while he showers.  

The sun droops behind the plywood scoreboard, backlighting the whorls of gnats behind first base. Shinwon watches a bunch of fifteen-year-olds in basketball shorts drag the field in the gold light, swatting at the swarms. The air is just beginning to haze with blue when the kid misting down the pitcher's mound with a garden hose flicks it towards Shinwon in the dugout, grin wide and shit-eating— a signal to beat it. Shinwon bats the air in the general direction of the kid and sighs, but heads down into the clubhouse without a fight.

 

The locker room is quiet, peeling paint on the benches and rusty hinges on the doors. His cleats make hollow clicks that bounce off the shower stall tiles and reverberate through the rows of lockers. Shinwon gives a perfunctory sniff to his street clothes to determine if there's a point in showering here—but even though his tee-shirt could smell a little fresher, lukewarm shower beer beckons stronger.   

Shinwon's locker is piled with backup gloves and sliding shorts, mangled, mud-caked kneesocks, all overlaid with a pervasive odor of dusty leather and vinegar-y stress sweat. After some rummaging, he retrieves the PBR in question from its place in the back right corner, under a spare knee pad. Disrobing as expediently as possible when one is wearing spandex sliding shorts, he makes a beeline for the shower stall on the far end, where he can place his shower beer on the wraparound tile wall.

The shower hisses to life, Shinwon hums vaguely, and the crack of the can tab echoes with such a bright resonance that he audibly sighs, closing his eyes to rest his forehead against the cool tiles.

 

_If you don't get your shit together, they're gonna pass you up this season too. Looking at your averages, can you really blame them?_

 

He sighs, and and takes a sip.

 

"Ko Shinwon,"

 

A voice from the ether. Can't he see that Shinwon's fucking busy?

 

"Ko Shinwon, what the fuck is your problem?"

 

Not specific enough. Shinwon has many problems.

 

"Ko Shinwon, do you want to square up like it's an eighties baseball movie and I've just called your pitching arm a sack of shit? I can actually call your arm a sack of shit if that would make it easier for you."

 

 _God,_ Hongseok is so annoying.

 

"Can you make it quick?"

 

"Are you physically incapable of throwing the fucking ball to your fucking cutoff man or do you still just hate my ugly guts for reasons I have yet to understand?"

 

Shinwon takes a long sip of his shower beer, and deliberates.

 

_He's gonna make it first. And he deserves it more than you do, too._

 

"Yeah, uh. Maybe I just hate your ugly guts."

 

~

 

Shinwon knows that Hongseok isn't stupid. Hotshot city boys are easy to scout, but hard to pin down—they get many offers, make more waves. Hongseok could’ve gotten himself drafted by a team much less shitty than the A’s.

But they’ve all seen _Moneyball_ , you know? And Brad Pitt may be a lot sexier than Billy Beane ever was, but all myths are, on some fundamental level, true. Oakland's game is all about the minor league prospects, finding diamonds in the rough, honing them. And for a city boy trying to make it big, sometimes it’s better to make the pond a little smaller, if you want to polish up quickly.

 

Hongseok had even said it back during the preseason, fingers wrapped so loosely around the neck of his Corona bottle that Shinwon had felt like screaming, to see if he could jar it loose. _Everyone knows Oakland’s farm ball has the quickest turnaround…who knows? By the time I’m in Triple A I might be in line to start for the Yanks…isn’t that the goal, really?_

Shinwon had thumbed over the condensation on his own bottle, said nothing. The late June humidity plastered over all of them like a fog, and it was 'meat' season, all these West Coast boys freshly shipped out here from the draft, so they’d taken them down to the field at dusk to drink in the outfield. They used to descend, a chaotic storm, upon Mulligan’s, but there was no use bothering with the formality of getting drunk in designated spaces anymore—not when it’s sticky-hot out and half the time the kids are just looking to get shitfaced and run through the sprinklers. Wooseok is already sopping wet and covered in infield mud, legs caked reddish brown.

But Hongseok’s point is one that’s hard to argue with, especially in single A farm ball. No one’s here to stay, not by choice. You either play hard enough to get your shot at the Show, or you’re pelted around the system like a pinball until you're too hurt or too old. It’s easier to stand out if you’re only trying to impress a shit team. Especially a shit team that’s known for bartering their myriad minor league prospects in exchange for seasoned players.

 _I guess,_ Shinwon had finally said, very slowly. _But isn't the Show the dream, anyway? Everything after that is just cosmetic shit. But if Yankee pinstripes will flatter your ass the best, do what you must._

He had taken a long sip of his Corona then, dragged his eyes over to where Hongseok sat on the right field foul line. Hongseok had been watching him, face shining from the humidity in the ballpark lights, bottom lip reflecting a sickle of light where he'd brought the bottle to his mouth. His throat bobbed a couple of times as if to speak, but he seemed to swallow it back each time. Shinwon could barely see his eyes through their glassy shine.

 

 _You want a lime for that,_ Hongseok had eventually asked, languidly gesturing towards Shinwon's bottle, still held to his lips. Shinwon did, but favored aloof disdain. Hongseok rolled to his side before standing, loose athletic shorts flicking the side of Shinwon's head as he rose.

 

When Hongseok had ambled over to Jinho (and therefore his solo cup of lime wedges prepared before the excursion), Shinwon let his head fall back, and watched fingers of clouds crowd out the moon.

 

~

 

Back when Shinwon was a kid, he had idolized Derek Jeter; he picked the number 2 for every little league jersey, imagined a future where he'd be waiting in the on-deck circle, all in pinstripes, the Yankees shortstop at the plate. And he played hard, played well, and loved the game with a passion he had for very little else, because that was how Jeter had described the secret of his success to the authors who wrote his numerous second-grade reading level biographies.

And Shinwon had continued to play all through high school, making waves in his small town. Even when his mother first told him, gently, that it would be very hard to make it to the Bigs. Then less gently, when he didn't grow out of it.

 

_~_

 

After the lime incident, Shinwon would periodically catch Hongseok watching him. In the dugout, for instance, when Shinwon grabs handfuls of sunflower seeds from Hongseok's bag (because god knows he's not paying for a bag of 75% inedible content coated liberally in salt); and sometimes from across the couch at the house, when Shinwon's socked feet push Hongseok's legs off the middle cushion so that he can stretch his legs out instead. Something about the way Hongseok looks at him feels like a challenge—a twist in his lower lip, a raised eyebrow. Shinwon, fundamentally opposed to doing what people ask of him, ever, ignores each challenge with brutal totality. Even when Hongseok catches his hand, sending sunflower seeds skittering across the dugout. Even when Hongseok swings his legs back onto the couch, propping his bare heels on Shinwon's lower thigh instead.

And sometimes after a few beers, when Hwitaek is grilling burgers and brats in the backyard for the team and Hyojong dances around him to light a joint on the charcoal briquettes like the little goblin he is, Hongseok's heavy eyes and loose limbs find Shinwon as they sit in the dark on the back step. While Hwitaek swats at Hyojong and scolds him for forgetting the team's impending drug test, Hongseok laughs heartily into Shinwon's side.

Shinwon stays stock-still, even when Hongseok's open-mouthed laughter lands on the cusp of his shoulder. After two motionless minutes pass, Shinwon will carefully extricate himself, attempt to trip Wooseok where he and Yuto are pelting whiffle balls at each other on the other side of the lawn, and Hongseok will bury his chuckling into the stair rail instead.

 

~

 

If Shinwon's life were an 80s baseball movie, right about they'd insert the early season action montage where a bunch of actors who don't actually know how to throw a baseball pretend to do so with artful jump cuts. Except every scene is a throw to home plate Shinwon somehow botches, spliced with various shots of Hongseok looking annoyed and Hyojong scrambling to retrieve it. The one saving grace is that none of these plays directly impact the outcome of the games, and sometimes the play is close enough that it doesn't even drop an E on Shinwon's record. That's a big 'sometimes,' though.

Off the field, his stats are better. Hwitaek seems determined for them all to play nice, so he organizes team dinners, which means ordering pizza and enlisting a reluctant Hyojong to help round up the kids.

 

In any classic baseball movie, the players are divided into several archetypes. Shinwon tries to figure out where each of them belong:

There's usually some guy that casts spells on his bat, his glove, his helmet...the superstitious warlock. That's Hyojong, Shinwon thinks. He's always eating something weird before the games for luck, and he started wearing a garter belt over his sliding shorts after he saw the pitcher in _Bull Durham_ do it _,_ to get him _thinking out of the right side of his brain when he's_ _on the field_.

 

The jaded veteran. Jinho's on his third season here, despite having a phenomenal, big-league reliever kind of slider. He'd been climbing, about four years back, even made it to AAA ball on the Nashville Sounders, looking like he'd either get traded to the Rangers as part of some big-name deal or brought up to the A's bullpen.

 

 _Then I tore my ACL,_ Jinho says flatly. Shinwon's never seen Hyunggu, Wooseok, and Yuto so well-behaved at a dinner table before.

 

There's the solid ones that make the highlight reel for a couple of clean plays, but don't get much airtime besides that.

 

_Yeah, I played shortstop in high school. But we all play shortstop in high school, don't we?_

 

Changgu smiles, glancing down. _I figured third basemen are harder to come by. I was the only one drafted in my city this year, so there's a lot of anticipation that I'm gonna be some kind of superstar or something._

 

There's the ones that are just so, so young. Wooseok lives entirely off of microwaveable mac-and-cheese containers and Pepsi. Shinwon wants to die a little every time he sees his shelf of food in the kitchen.

 

There's always a belligerent one. Shinwon supposes that's him.

 

And there are always the hotshots, the ones who get the dramatic close-ups while they run the bases, when they wind up for the pitch. They're the main attractions of the story, more in-focus than the others; they have the most potential. 

 

Hyunggu and Hongseok are starting to make waves, little by little. Since Shinwon's seen it once before, he knows the scouts will be visiting soon.

 

 

 

_Hey, kid. You're practically here more than our guys on the field are. You play?_

 

 

 

They go on the road again, and it's cramped and reeks of Wooseok's cleats. Hyunggu sits next to Shinwon on the bus to ask him questions about how often the scouts come back to evaluate them during the season, since Jinho is snoring up at the front of the bus and Hongseok is slumped in the seat beside him. Hongseok always takes the seat next to Jinho, since he's small and lets Hongseok hog the armrest.

 

_You've gotta give them a reason to watch, or they won't bother. They already know you've got wings, so your stats have to prove to them that you've got more to deliver._

 

_How quick can they bring you up?_

 

_By the end of the season, if it's going alright, most of us will be gone. But we have to be playing solid ball for that to happen...we really need wins. Or at the very least, we need our shit more together._

 

Hyunggu had looked out the window for a moment, his lips pursed.

 

_Can I ask why you're still here?_

 

It's that point in the afternoon where most people are sleeping on the bus, but when Shinwon looks up, Hongseok's eyes catch his from where he's draped over the back of his seat.

 

_That's an easy one. I made average plays and had an average arm and average stats. I never gave them a reason to watch me._

 

There is something Shinwon can't read in Hongseok's eyes, but it feels like a membrane stretched across the surface—easy to puncture. Shinwon turns to Hyunggu instead, who had averted his eyes immediately after asking, but watches him now with soft concern.

 

_Hey, what's with the face? I'm batting .275! If I can get to mid .300s, they'll be coming to visit me too. Just 'cause I know you'd miss me so much._

 

 

 

_Hey kid, you've got an arm. Try honing that for the outfield, and call me back next year. Everyone always wants to be shortstop._

 

 

 

The Lake Monsters get hot in Connecticut. Hyunggu's getting some pop behind his swings, Hyojong and Hwitaek have finally found a way to make their bizarre chemistry translate to their relationship on the mound as well as off, and the infield is all playing tight.

Jinho's been getting some saves, too, and his ERA is fantastically low. Their last night on the road, Changgu whispers to Shinwon while the team checks in at the motel that they're taking Jinho out to a bar to celebrate, so come down to the parking lot at nine. Filthy from being on the road, Shinwon showers while Wooseok whining that he's using up all the hot water, then changes into his nicer pair of khaki cargo shorts, belted to hell to keep them on his skinny hips.

Hongseok is wearing: salmon pink Vineyard Vines shorts. And a navy blue polo shirt, unbuttoned all the way for an aggressive view of his clavicle. Shinwon tries to mask his laughter with a cough and _barks_. Jinho quells him with a look, but it's ruined when the corners of his mouth twitch.

  

In rural New England, towns run like strip malls down a section of mainstreet before ricocheting off into strange farm roads and obscure interstate exits. There's no need for them to drive, since the McDonald's, the motel, and Mr. Z's exist on practically the same block. So they walk to the bar, and in the heavy dark mosquitoes nip at Shinwon's calves.

Mr. Z's is the kind of dive that would attract the post-stadium gameday crowd if there were a stadium even remotely nearby. As it is, Mr. Z's patrons are mostly middle-aged, with peeling sunburns and sunglasses worn on the backs of their heads, arguing about the Mets game over sticky tables and peanuts.

 

After an indulgent round of shots, Jinho makes it clear that he just wants to enjoy a large draft beer and eat chili fries like the 'boring old fuck' he is, so the rest wait around at their high table in the back until they feel satisfactorily drunk.

Hongseok is eating all of the bar nuts. This makes Shinwon absolutely livid, and he's not even really tipsy yet. He just keeps popping them in, chewing with his mouth open, long line of his throat angled towards Changgu, who's laughing at his stupid jokes. One side of his collar is popped.

 _Hey Hongseok,_ Shinwon says, and Jinho must be able to detect something in his tone already, because he lets out this world-weary sigh and picks up a chili fry. _Tying a cardigan around your neck would really complete the trust fund frat boy look you've got going on there._

Hwitaek snorts. Hongseok just looks at him, still chewing his fucking bar nuts, lets out a flat _Ha!_ , and turns back to whatever Changgu is giggling about over the top of his gin and tonic.

 

 

 

_Hey Meat, congratulations! You got it! They're gonna go for you!_

 

 

 

Hongseok is trashed. Shinwon genuinely regrets missing it happen, but he and Wooseok were busy flicking peanut shells at an increasingly miffed Hwitaek.

Since there's no more sports programming at this hour, they've turned on Bruce Springsteen, which is close enough; middle-aged women in summer-weight plaids with faded denim bermuda shorts appear to twirl around the open space in the center of the bar. In the corner someone wails along soulfully into a karaoke mic, and they're getting most of the lyrics wrong.

Hongseok's hair is disheveled from passionate headbanging; eyes closed and lips pressed to the mic, and he's only wearing one of the cognac leather boat shoes he arrived in. A cursory peek around their table reveals the other, sopping wet, sitting under Changgu's stool.

 

 _He spilled his drink,_ Changgu tells him over the music. There's a softness to his giggle that Shinwon thinks wouldn't be present if it were him relaying such news.

 

Then Hongseok starts singing along to "Glory Days," reaching his arm out towards their table, and it's time for Shinwon to leave.

 

~

 

_Shit, is it someone's birthday?_

 

Despite the collective hangover looming over the bus as they drive through Massachusetts, Shinwon can feel a palpable excitement, so he leans over to Wooseok and asks.

 

_Some scouts called Coach last night. They're coming to see Jinho next home game._

 

Something buzzes in Shinwon's throat. Time to stay hot, then.

 

 

 

_Look, kid. We picked you up because you have potential. But not everyone makes it, and you need to go into this like failure isn't an option. Bulk up your averages and then we'll talk._

 

 

 

It's the top of the 6th, one out, and Hwitaek hasn't thrown anything over 80 the entire inning. They're damn lucky Kino and Hongseok brought some offense to the table back in the 4th, because the Williamsport Crosscutters have been wiping the floor with Hwitaek ever since. Hyojong calls time, jogs to the mound. Hwitaek's not used to losing his shit this quickly— he's fighting it. Hyojong pats his hip with one hand and waves off Changgu and Hongseok from coming over to the mound. He doesn't bother talking into his glove, because the local cameras really aren't interested, and the Crosscutters all know what this mound visit means, since Jinho started tossing in the bullpen ten minutes ago.

Shinwon is too far out to hear their conversation, but when Hyojong first starts speaking, Hwitaek throws his head back, sighs heavily. Hyojong keeps tapping Hwitaek's hip, gentle and grounding, until Hwitaek finally drops his head, taking his hat off and running a heavy hand through his hair. He places the ball in the divet on the mound and walks off to a smattering of local applause and a bracing pat on the shoulder from Wooseok as he passes.

 

Jinho comes jogging in from the outfield bullpen, and flashes Shinwon a cheeky wink.

 

 _The scout's coming today,_ Jinho had muttered to Shinwon in the clubhouse, icing his elbow while Shinwon iced his knee. _You gonna hit your fucking cut like you're not the moron I know you to be?_

 

 _I make no promises,_ Shinwon had said, and so far he hasn't been tested. But the pair of sunglasses over the third base dugout make their presence felt. He can feel the scratch of mechanical pencil lead on her notepad, the way her eyes scan their stances and postures and attitudes under reflective lenses.

 

 

 

_Hey kid, I'm sticking my neck out for you here. Try not to make me look stupid._

 

 

 

Hwitaek left a runner on first for Jinho to clean up. Hyojong slips his mask back on and crouches behind the plate for the next batter.

Shinwon can't see the sign, but he can tell Hyojong asked for one of Jinho's nasty sliders, low and away. The way the batter reaches for it is a little hilarious, honestly, but it results in a weak sort of dribbler in between second and third base. Hyunggu charges.

The baserunners are quick, but Hyunggu _flies_. Changgu moves to back him up, since Hongseok is busy covering second, but he needn't have bothered—Hyunggu scoops the ball up bare-handed, tossing it back to Hongseok as his momentum carries him farther towards the pitcher's mound. The throw is kind of awkward, since Hyunggu rushed it a little; Shinwon hustles to back Hongseok should the throw overshoot him.

It's happening fast, but Shinwon feels like it's already over, like he's watching the ESPN highlight reel on the couch. Hongseok catches it, lunging as far as he can while keeping his foot on the base. _Out one,_ Shinwon thinks, but there's a chance for the other. Hongseok wheels, drills the ball towards Wooseok's outstretched glove at first.

 

The pop of the ball hitting the heel of Wooseok's glove seems to reverberate through the whole stadium as the runner speeds past in a blur. It's close, but not close enough, since the umpire raises his fist to declare an out with zero hesitation.

 

The game turnout is small tonight, but they still receive appreciative whoops from the locals and men in khakis applauding with their bucket-hats in hand. The announcers are losing their shit over Hyunggu and Hongseok's 'raw athleticism.' Jogging back to the first base dugout, Shinwon finds the eyes, or rather the reflective lenses, of the scout. She's jotting a little note in the margins of her clipboard.

 

 _Making waves,_ Shinwon thinks. Something echoes in his chest, a pebble dropped in still water.

 

~

 

The air is thick in the clubhouse tonight, the heady energy of another win under their belts converted to a buzzing trepidation. Hongseok has been sitting on the locker bench in only his sliding shorts and shower sandals for the past ten minutes, chin in his hands and elbows on knees. Hyunggu paces, his nylon track pants making frenetic swishing sounds, until Wooseok can't take it anymore and snaps his damp towel at him. Hwitaek ices his arm in the metal tub while Hyojong sits on top of the table next to it, prodding at Hwitaek's knees with his bare toes.

The scout had drawn Jinho aside at the end of the game. No one has spoken since.

 

"He has to get it, right?"

 

It's Hyunggu who says it, looking imploringly at Shinwon of all people, like he should know.

 

"Of course he is, right? His arm was on fire!" Changgu jumps in, smiles nervously. He's been eating a SlimJim in uncertain silence, glancing at Hongseok's motionless figure with steadily increasing concern.

 

They hear the clicking of cleats on the stairs, and everyone turns.

Jinho stands in the doorway, knocking the dirt out of his cleats on the doorframe. He's avoiding everyone's eyes, but Shinwon was here the last time the scouts came for Jinho, there for the numb anger, the broken bottles, so it doesn't fool him.

 

"How soon?"

 

Jinho smiles.

 

"Soon. But not just yet."

 

Hyojong breaks the silence with a whoop, and then everyone is chattering, swarming, and Shinwon hangs back, one corner of his mouth turned up. Someone pours a gatorade bottle, blue flavor, over Jinho's head; then Hyojong scrambles to upend Hwitaek's ice bath over him. Jinho catches Shinwon's eye in the chaos—through flying cleats, liquids, various personal effects of Hwitaek's. He's laughing hoarsely as they cluster around him, but nods to Shinwon on the periphery of the excitement. Jinho knows, better than any of them, how Shinwon feels right now.

 

Shinwon is still smiling.

 

 

 

_I'm going to be real with you for a second, kid. It's going to be hard to stand out. I don't want to discourage you, but if you're still here by season three, I'd start job hunting._

 

 

 

On days when the air sits heavy, almost electric, Shinwon sits in a portable camping chair on the front porch and waits for thunder.

There's not like, official Lake Monsters housing, but most of the team lives fraternity-style in this worn down, colonial-style house down the street from the local college. Jinho constantly remarks that he's too old for this, but since most only live there for a season or so it's easier than trying to figure out a bunch of separate leases in a small city.

Shinwon wouldn't say he's avoiding the team after the previous night's loss— he just likes the wraparound porch best, since the California boys all complain about the humidity and stay indoors. They have an off-day today; the visiting team's bus broke down on their way to the ballfield, and they're stranded in Middlesex until morning. So Shinwon had settled in his chair after dinner, chilled pack of hard cider in hand (because sometimes it's that kind of day! Eat shit, Hwitaek!), and had watched the clouds comb themselves across the sky until the sun set and crickets began to hum.

Just when he had given up on thundershowers, picked up his half-finished bottle in one hand and the cardboard in the other, it started to pour. Shinwon sank back into his chair, rain pummeling the porch awning with heavy drops.

 

The lightning starts out far away, but Shinwon can still see the tops of the trees across the way silhouetted by each flash.

 

_1…….2…….3…….4…….5…….6…….7……..8…_

 

And the thunder rumbles. Eight miles means Shinwon doesn't have to worry about closing his upstairs window just yet, so he takes another sip of his cider.

 

_1…….2…….3…….4…….5…_

 

_Hey Meat, what's with all these E's on your record? You tryin' to be a hero or something? Gotta have the cannon to back up the talk first, kid. There's nine fielders for a reason._

 

 

 

_1…….2…….3…_

 

_Don't try too hard, kid. Not everyone's a Jeter._

 

 

 

_1…….2…….3…….4…_

 

Shinwon tries to sit through it longer, but sometimes waiting for the rain is the event itself. Once it starts, the outside of the house seems to swell with moisture, bloated and heavy. The noise, the pressure, becomes claustrophobic after a while.

 

The drum of the rain drowns out Shinwon's footsteps across the porch. He's about to pop the spring on the screen door to toss his bottles in Hwitaek's redeemable recyclables bin when he catches sight of Hongseok's broad back through the mesh, hunched over the kitchen sink. But not quite really over the kitchen sink, and then he tilts his head, and you know, that really explains why Changgu's been wearing so many tacky v-neck shirts lately.

Changgu is cupping Hongseok's elbow with one wet hand, sleeve pushed up high, and a soapy kitchen sponge dangles loosely in his other. Shinwon has very little shame, but Changgu's placid, boxy smile as Hongseok mumbles into his neck appeals to Shinwon's baser morality, somehow; he doesn't open the door.

 

Lightning flashes again.

_1…….2…….3…….4…….5…….6…….7……..8…….9…….10…_

 

The storm is passing, so Shinwon takes his bottles and walks out to the backyard in the light rain.

 

 

 

_Is your heart in this, Ko Shinwon? You don't have a chance in hell if it isn't._

 

_~_

 

Vladimir Guerrero, a nine-time All-Star, fantastic fielder, and one of Shinwon's outfield idols, grew up hitting bottlecaps with sticks due to lack of proper equipment in his hometown. When he made it big, reporters and analysts attributed part of Guerrero's prowess as a 'bad-ball hitter'— he could hit practically any pitch, no matter how terrible— to this childhood exercise.

 

On the stretch of field behind the house, Shinwon picks up the rake, chokes up on the handle until it's a reasonable length to swing.

In the porchlight, rain licking his bangs into points, Shinwon tosses his bottlecaps up like practice pitches.

 

_1…….2…….3…….4……._

 

One makes contact, a shallow arc that vanishes into the dark grass. He picks the missed ones up and tries again.

 

_1…….2…….3……._

 

And again.

 

_1…….2……._

 

_The kid I asked to show me his arm back then, he loved the game. It was practically stifling how much he wanted it. Do you love it still?_

 

 

_1._

 

 

They're inching towards the playoffs, now. Jinho is still with them, pitching phenomenally, and the Lake Monsters defense has never been stronger. Shinwon hates to admit it, but their bizarre harmony improved exponentially once he started acknowledging Hongseok as cutoff man.  

 

It's the bottom of the ninth, tie game, two outs. Changgu's on second, and Hyunggu's at the plate. Hwitaek has taken out his tin of chewing tobacco, and the wad pushes his lower lip out in a pout, shiny with spit. They're all hanging over the rail of the dugout, waiting for the pitch.

Hongseok jostles Shinwon's shoulder as he reaches down for more gum, and he looks away from Hwitaek's mouth. Shinwon had really thought Big League Chew was reserved for little league players and brand sponsors, but Hongseok has this habit of piling the strands into his mouth when he's nervous. Right now, it looks like he's chewing on a wet sock.

Hyunggu takes the first pitch, and it's a ball. Wooseok hollers at him from the on-deck circle in encouragement.

 

"Attababy!" Hwitaek yells through his full lip. "Good eye!"

 

They're all crammed together, but Hongseok is very close, vibrating frantically. When he reaches for more gum, Shinwon catches his wrist, holds his arm locked, immobile.

Shinwon drags his eyes over, so slowly. Hongseok watches him, cheek puffed with chewing gum, lips parted. His eyes reflect the LED advertisements screens like glass, like ice.

 

It shatters with the crack of Hyunggu's bat meeting the Crosscutters' high fastball. And then they are all screaming, flooding the infield to meet Changgu as he crosses the plate for the win.

 

~

 

Hyunggu is good at giving interviews—he hits all the player clichés just right, while simultaneously being so earnest that Shinwon almost buys it for real.

 

"I'm playing it one game at a time," he tells the local news channel. "I'm just happy to be here."

 

In the clubhouse they dump the water cooler on Hyunggu's head once he starts taking off his socks—an immobilized victim. While Hyunggu splutters through the ice, Hwitaek grabs his hand, raising it like he won a prize fight.

 

"Rookie of the year!"

 

~

 

Shinwon isn't home when they get the call. He'd gone to the ballfield with a grocery bag of bottlecaps and pebbles, and the long stick they poke the fire with when Hwitaek lets them take off the grill grate to roast marshmallows. It's charred at the tip, crumbling. Shinwon uses this part as his grip, and his hands are smeared gray and reek of it.

It's the evening, later than anyone else stays at the field, and in the stadium lights he hits the bottlecaps and rocks, one by one. Most stay in the infield, so he doesn't worry about the mess. The grounds crew will sweep them away before the next time he's here to play.

 

Jinho calls him first. _Where the hell are you?_

 

 _Out,_ Shinwon says.

 

 _Well come back in,_ Jinho says. _Big news at the house._

 

~

 

When Shinwon walks up to the porch, the light from inside the house floods the yard in a heavy yellow glow. He can hear music drifting through the screen door, happy chatter.

He pops the screen door and is immediately greeted with a can of beer and a whoop from Wooseok, which answers nothing about Hyunggu crying on the couch, Jinho staring at the wall with a dixie cup of red wine in hand, or the sound Hongseok's Adidas slides make as they slap the backs of his heels while he dances around the kitchen with a Corona.

 

"Who the hell died?" he asks Hyojong, who's trying to pat Hyunggu's shoulder, but looks more like a cat in socks navigating a tile floor.

 

"They're going up. Almost all the way this time. AAA."

 

"Who is?" Static is building high in Shinwon's cheekbones. He wonders if Hyojong can see his face buzz.

 

"Jinho, Hyunggu, and Hongseok."

 

It feels like Shinwon's lips might be moving, but he can't be sure.

 

"All of them? Why together?"

 

"Organization wants Jinho to keep an eye on them when they first go up since they're meat. They've been eyeing them since the first visit, apparently."

 

At that, Hyunggu lets out a particularly grating sob, and Shinwon has to go.

 

He's sitting on the back step, sipping the beer Wooseok had so generously pressed into his hand on arrival. The mosquitoes swarm his lower legs, but Shinwon just watches them do their jobs. Then he closes his eyes, and lets his head fall back.

 

The backdoor squeaks.

 

"Ko Shinwon,"

 

Hongseok is drunk, face flushed, movements more clumsy this time than languid.

 

"Ko Shinwon,"

 

Shinwon sighs, takes a sip of his beer.

 

"Ko Shinwon, I'm leaving tomorrow to get one step closer to my dream…Aren't you going to congratulate me?"

 

Hongseok is sitting on the step now too, pressed stifling and damp against his side. His breath falls heavy on Shinwon's cheek.

 

"Aren't you going to congratulate me?" He says again, this time into the collar of Shinwon's tee-shirt, at the junction of neck and shoulder. His nose presses into Shinwon's throat.

 

Hongseok's looking for a fight, one hand braced on Shinwon's thigh. His pulse thunders under Hongseok's splayed fingers. He can't bring himself to give in, give it to him.

 

"Congratulations," Shinwon eventually says.

 

Hongseok's eyes are glassed over with drink, but they're still sharp enough to widen. In the vulnerability, Shinwon disentangles himself quickly, closing the backdoor behind him.

 

He sleeps late into the morning, and by the time he wakes, Hongseok has packed his bags and taken a taxi to the airport.

 

~

 

It's late in the season now, so fresh meat has been replaced by mostly older players. They come down from the other levels, reliable, jaded, and old enough that Shinwon thinks about his future in their eyes.

 

After Jinho, Hyunggu, and Hongseok, Hwitaek had gotten his shot at the Bigs. Hyojong was brought up to AA with the promise that they'd groom him for the next open catching spot. Changgu went up with him, just a week later. And the older ones came, one by one, to fill the holes in the lineup.

They're clinging on with three fingers on the edge of a cliff, and they love it still. Are desperate for it still. But none of them are Jeters, or Guerreros.

 

The house is quieter in the evenings. Shinwon hits his bottlecaps in the backyard, and sometimes the young ones will join him. They've been more subdued of late; Shinwon can feel the fear most palpably in the way Wooseok stands at first base now, stiffer than before. The energy earlier in the season had left Shinwon with the rush of progression, a frantic forward motion; now, this momentum makes him feel like he's careening towards an exit, no command over direction. They've realized it's not just about the postseason anymore. The game is moving forward, will always move forward, and if they can't ride along the current, they'll sink.

 

Like these older players, now. They're not playing to make it to the Bigs. They're playing to make it to another season.

 

Every night, Shinwon checks Jinho's stats online to see if he's getting much use in the A's bullpen. As promised, he'd finally secured his spot; fancy contract, fancy money, fancy new phone he texts Shinwon sporadically from.

 

Shinwon does not check Hongseok's stats, though based on Hyunggu's regular emails, they're both still on the Nashville Sounders, doing well.

 

Shinwon has been doing well, too. The new second baseman they brought down is too disillusioned and unphased for Shinwon to even bother messing with out on the field. He's hitting his cut because otherwise he might get hit himself, had been Shinwon's answer to Wooseok. Not because he didn't have the arm to do it if he wanted.

His batting average is going up, too, thanks to all the bottlecaps. And the scout had come back.

 

 _Atta kid,_ she had said. _You might get that plane ticket yet._

 

 

 

_The Show doesn't happen without sacrifice, kid. How far are you willing to go? How much do you love it?_

 

 

A little fish in a big, big pond. Shinwon's always loved it.

 

~

 

**Author's Note:**

> me about this fic: don't trust a thing this fickle bitch (ko shinwon) says or does


End file.
